A Storm of Red
by DaughterOfPoseidon333
Summary: Post CA:TWS. Natasha knows Steve could do so much better. He deserved someone with just as pure a heart as him. And Natasha knew she deserved to be with someone just as haunted as herself. Yet, she can't help but fall into those blue eyes of his. And maybe, just maybe, doing so could wash away some of her red. Romanogers. Rated M only for last chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everybody! New story time! So to start, I have been shipping these two like crazy since I saw Winter Soldier the first time! And I've been shipping them even more since the second time I saw it :)**

** This is also my first time writing for Marvel. Ever. I'm a little nervous, to be honest, because I love the Marvel movies so much, and I have so much respect for the Marvel universe as a whole, and I really tried to be as accurate as possible. I'm going mostly off of the MCU for this story. I haven't read any of the comics. I know about the Red Room, but even then, it isn't much, so just bear that in mind. **

** Also, the beginning of this chapter, where I talk about when Clint was sent to kill Natasha, that is completely made up. I don't know how that event actually happened, so I just took some creative liberties with that.**

** One more quick note, some of the inspiration/concepts came from Shadows of a Dream's story, By My Shield (five times we touched). Some of the things in mine are loosely based off her story, which you guys should definitely read!**

** Anyway, enough of my boring talk! DISCLAIMER: I own nothing!**

** Enjoy!**

**-:-**

Natasha Romanoff didn't get _scared. _Fear was not in her vocabulary. Any fear she once held had been beaten out of her during her training. _Fear is for the weak, Natalia. You must be strong. Strong, Natalia!_ _If you are weak, then you are dead. Be strong. Be fast. Be smart. Be anything but scared. Fear is for the weak, and you are not weak, are you, Natalia?_ Words repeated dozens of times throughout her training till she became as cold as the spider from which she was named.

Natasha could count the times she'd been scared—truly scared, right down to her bones—on one hand. Two fingers, to be exact.

The first time had been when Clint had been sent to exterminate her.

As she lay flat on her back, disarmed, red hair stuck to her forehead, the Hawk stood above her, not so differently from the many men she'd dealt with in the past. Except all those past men, even disarmed, she'd been able to take them down. But not Barton. He was _not _those men. He would not be so fooled by her pretty face or any party-tricks she had up her sleeve. An arrow was notched in his bow, poised directly over her heart. His face was passive, though there was a barely readable conflict in his eyes. He held her fate in those sure, steady hands of his—hands that could very quickly end her life.

Natalia Romanova was not afraid of dying—they'd beaten that fear out of her, too. No, what she was afraid of was _living. _Not only would she have to live, owing a debt she couldn't hope to repay anytime soon, but she would also have to live with all of that blood on her hands. She would have to live through every night where, in the dark, the faces of her victims would plague her. Bad guys or not, she had still _killed them. _Their blood stained her hands permanently.

Red.

_So much red_. Red like the Red Room, where she had lost her humanity. Red that ran through her veins with hardly a hope of ever getting flushed out. Red that coated and dripped from every letter of her name, changing her from the little girl who wore dresses and hummed Russian lullabies into the Black Widow, the killer who had been forged in shadow and fire.

_Red, red, red, red…_

So, yes, when Clint spared her life, her initial feeling had been fear. Fear for living and fear of what would become of her. Fear that struck her so suddenly that she begged him to kill her. _Do it! Kill me! I know you're not a coward. They wouldn't have sent a coward after _me. _Kill me! Do it! You coward, kill me! _And when he didn't, she swallowed down that fear, buried it in a place deep inside her where she vowed never to let it show again. She took Clint's hand, brushed herself off, and with his—and later Fury's—help, she found a life worth living.

A life she hadn't realized she didn't want to lose until the second time fear had overcome her, and nearly broke her.

That second time being aboard the Helicarrier when she had failed to protect Bruce Banner from himself. She'd failed and he had turned into the Hulk. His last look at her before he lost control, the apology he conveyed through his gaze for what was about to happen, it was still burned into her mind.

She remembered running, running from the monster, running for her life for the first time in….well, _ever. _And though she stayed ahead of him, it wasn't by much. Compared to the giant footsteps he took, the reach of her legs was suddenly that of a child's. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as the beast chased her, her ragged breaths too loud in her own ears. And when her footsteps were no longer able to carry her far enough away, she found herself flying through the air like a ragdoll. She landed hard, her side aching where he had struck her. She curled in on herself, trying to be as small as possible.

As the Hulk towered over her, his roar penetrated that deep, dark corner of her heart where she had locked away her fear. The monster came closer and she was _scared. _Scared because at that moment, the beast in front of her was _not _Bruce Banner. Banner was not in control and the thing that loomed in front of her was going to kill her. All the Hulk had to do was pick her up in one of his huge hands and _squeeze, _crushing every bone in her body and then throw her away like a broken vase. As the Hulk was about to end her life, her only thought was that _she was scared to die. _That feeling, of not wanting her life to end, surprised her so much that, even after Thor intervened, she sat, unmoving in the shadows. She tucked her legs up against her as if by doing so she could shove the terror she felt back inside her and bury it once again.

The only thing to snap her out of that state, to pull her back from the precipice from which she was about to topple from into darkness, was Barton. Clint, who had been by her side since he'd lowered that arrow away from her heart, only deserved the best from her. Swallowing down that choking, paralyzingfear that she _hated_, she did just that and gave her all to pull _him _back from the edge.

-:-

Now, as Fury veered the helicopter—with Sam now on board—away from the flaming, broken wreckage of the Triskelion, Natasha realized she could add, not one, but two more fingers to tally up the times she'd been afraid. In the span of four days, that terrible, icy fear had threatened to consume her, to wipe away any trace of bravery she thought she possessed.

The third time had happened when Nick had been died (well, when she _thought _he'd died). She'd had to watch, helpless, as they operated on him. Nick, who had become her mentor, her friend…the closest thing she had to a father. He had taken her in when he had every excuse to kick her out onto the curb and put a bullet through her brain. Steve and Maria had been beside her as she watched, but she felt so, _so _alone.

She repeated _don't do this to me, Nick _over and over and over like it was a prayer, and Natasha Romanoff did not _pray. _And even if she did, she didn't think there was any god that would accept her prayer. But she kept saying it over, again and again. _Don't do this to me, Nick. _She was _that _desperate. She didn't do _desperation _either, but this was _Nick _and she could not lose him. He couldn't just _die. _The invincible, seemingly immortal Nick Fury couldn't just _die. _He couldn't leave her. If he was gone, well, she might as well die too.

So when his monitor flat-lined, creating a horrible, keening, noise that she _could not _shut out, yes, she got scared. Her fear banged and threw itself against the cage she had shut it in till she willingly let it out because Nick was _dead _and she was _afraid. _

The fear she'd felt for her friend dissipated, however, when the metaphorical and very literal curtain was pulled back to reveal that Nick Fury, though bruised and beaten, was still alive. The fear was then replaced by relief and maybe some anger. But mostly relief because he was alive and kicking.

Natasha looked at Fury now as he piloted the helicopter and bickered with Sam about the proper placement of floor numbers. It was starting to become a bit of a habit, checking to make sure he was still there, that he was still breathing, and that he wouldn't leave her again, no matter how short a time it had been. She turned and looked out at the Triskelion. One of the Helicarriers was still carving its way through the structure, like Death's scythe. The building burned, and thick, black smoke poured into the sky—a pyre for S.H.I.E.L.D. A hideous, twisted metaphor for the downfall of the agency that had become her home.

Reminding herself that the mission wasn't quite finished, she tapped the com on her wrist. "Hill, do you have a location on Rogers?"

"_Natasha, Captain Rogers—Steve, he—_" Maria's voice responded immediately, sounding flustered, panicked, so unlike her usual, very professional and put-together self.

"What it is? Where's Rogers?" Natasha asked, trying to keep her brain from going straight to the worse-case-scenario.

There was a pause that seemed to last a millennia, though Natasha knew it was only a few seconds. She could _feel _rather than see Nick and Sam awaiting Hill's response just as much as her.

Finally, there was a crackle of static and Hill sounded over the com. "_Rogers was still on board the Helicarrier when they fired on one another."_

For a moment, Natasha wasn't sure she'd heard right. She gave a slight shake of her head, as if doing so would change the answer Hill had given her. Natasha swallowed, feeling her heart plummet.

"What do you mean he was still on board?" she asked through gritted teeth, trying to control her anger and frustration, and above all, the terror that was threatening to break loose from her suddenly fragile being.

"_I'm sorry, Natasha._" Maria said. "_I didn't want to, but Steve, he ordered me to have the Helicarriers fire on one another. He was insistent, and I—_"

"Have you tried comming him?" Natasha asked, her anger slowly being replaced with the fear that she was fighting so hard to keep down.

"_Yes, he's not answering._"

"Well, then try again!" Natasha snapped.

"_I've already tried again, he's not picking up._" Hill repeated, the edge of anger in her tone not doing a very good job of covering up the panic in her voice.

"Dammit, Hill! Try him again! We have to—"

"Natasha," Fury said firmly, cutting her off. "You have to _calm down._"

As she took in Fury's words, she regretted snapping at Hill. It wasn't Maria's fault and she knew that. She took a few deep breaths, trying to slow her racing pulse. She clenched one hand into a fist, concentrating all her anger on keeping her fingers tucked tightly against her palm.

"I'm sorry, Maria." Natasha said quietly into her com. "What Helicarrier was he on—?"

Natasha cut off as an explosion ripped through the sky, one big enough that Natasha felt it all the way down to her bones. Fury cursed as he righted the chopper, veering them out of the path of destruction. Natasha sucked in a breath as she caught a glimpse out the side of the helicopter at the single Helicarrier that remained in the sky. Fire poured from holes in the Helicarrier, glass shattered and rained from the sky, and metal groaned as it bent and twisted out of its shape.

Somehow Natasha knew—she _knew—_that Steve was on that Helicarrier. Maria's silence was only further proof that her assumption was correct. Chunks of steel and other debris fell from the huge machine, and Natasha couldn't help herself from watching each and every one of them, hoping and fearing at the same time that she would catch a glimpse of red, white, and blue. The terror she'd been struggling to keep at bay broke free and clenched around her heart. Her mouth fell open in horror as the Helicarrier started to sink faster and faster out of the sky, heading straight for the Potomac. She gasped, feeling like she couldn't get enough oxygen, bracing her hands against the seat, trying to stop them from trembling.

She didn't want to watch, didn't want to see the Helicarrier fall to its death like the others, didn't want to think about Steve being on board when that happened. After the week that they'd had, after all of what had happened, they had come _so close. _Steve didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to die. If anyone was to die on this mission, she'd much rather it was her.

Shakily, Natasha lifted her wrist back up and tapped her com again. "Rogers? Rogers, do you copy?"

Silence. There was nothing but static on his end.

"Maria, do you have a location on Rogers?" Natasha asked, her voice weak.

"_I can try coming him aga—" _Hill cut off, only for her to continue a moment later. "_Natasha, I lost his signal! His com is dead, I can't—I don't know where he is. Natasha, I'm sorry—"_

Natasha didn't wait to hear the rest. "Rogers? Captain Rogers, do you copy?"

Still nothing. The air in the chopper felt heavier, pressing down on her chest, pushing the oxygen out of her lungs, tightening the grip of the fear around her heart.

"Steve, do you copy?" she asked into the nothingness, voice cracking. "Steve!"

"Natasha," Fury whispered. She didn't look at the ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. Director for fear that the scream that was building in her throat would escape and thus shatter her.

"Steve?" she gave one last, quiet plea into her com. And even though she didn't pray, she prayed for Steve. She prayed that there was only something wrong with his com and he was not falling from the sky with the Helicarrier.

The only thing she got in reply was static.

This was the fourth time she had been afraid in her lifetime.

Not even spilling each and every secret and minute detail about her past life onto the internet for the whole world to see scared her this much. But perhaps that was because this time she was afraid, not for herself, but for someone else. Even when Fury had 'died', she had been selfish. She had been selfish and scared and didn't want him to leave her. But this was _Steve Rogers. _And she never thought she would feel this much absolute and complete terror for the super soldier.

But at the moment she wanted to curl up into a ball and never move again. She felt like a child—small, fragile, like any small movement would break her. She stared ahead, not really seeing. She barely even registered it when Sam gently placed his hand on her arm, leaving it there for a brief moment, before his let his hand fall away.

When she started working with Steve after the Battle of New York, it was simply professional—a partnership that worked well, most of the time, despite their differences. And then recently, somewhere in the midst of getting shot at and running from the very people they worked for and nearly getting killed, he chose to trust her, even with his life. Trust was not something many people gave her. Neither was it something she handed out easily to others. And yet Steve saw something in _her—_she, who would be stained red for the rest of her life_—_that he found worthy enough to put his life on the line for.

The idea that he—good, pure, selfless Steve Rogers—could be dead right now at the bottom of the Potomac made her sick.

"Put the chopper down," she mumbled hollowly, surprised she could even talk at all.

"What?" Fury asked, talking louder than normal so as to be heard over the whirring of the helicopter blades.

"I said put the chopper down." She repeated, her voice a little stronger.

"Natasha." Fury only said her name, but she took it for what it was: a warning. A warning not to go there, not to pull on that string in case it led to something she didn't like.

But she had to try. For Steve. He would do the same for her.

"Put the damn chopper down, Nick, or so help me I will jump into the Potomac myself! And conveniently enough, we're missing a door, so I suggest you find a place to land." she snapped, regaining her fire. It was a good thing, too, that she was one of the few who could talk to Fury in such a tone, otherwise he probably would have shot her in the foot and slapped duct tape over her mouth.

"Stubborn pain in the ass," Fury muttered, but he turned the helicopter and head towards the far bank of the Potomac. Once they found a good spot to land, Fury put the chopper down about a hundred yards back from the bank of the river.

"We're still not safe here, so you have ten minutes, Romanoff. " Nick called as she exited the helicopter. "And Natasha?"

Natasha turned to look back, meeting his one eye with her own. "Yes?"

"Find him."

Natasha nodded, taking off down the bank. She was glad that Sam hadn't tried to follow her, because she would have turned down his help anyway. This was something she had to do alone. She owed it to Steve. And besides, it things didn't go her way and she couldn't find him, well _if _that happened, then she definitely wanted to be alone.

She made her way down the beach, eyes scanning continuously. The smell of smoke was a little less potent here, farther away from the burning Triskelion. She glanced down at her watch and nearly screamed in frustration. How had it already been five minutes? She ran a hand through her hair, taking a few deep breaths, trying to stall the panic building up in her chest. She knew that she couldn't spend too long out here. Fury was right—they weren't out of the fire yet. In fact, by releasing everything about herself and about S.H.I.E.L.D. onto the web, she had put them even more into the fire. They were in danger here. And now that everyone knew who she was, enemies would be lining up—sooner rather than later—to take a shot at her, to try and rid the world of the Black Widow.

Natasha exhaled, knowing she didn't have time to worry about the implications of her actions at the moment. She would look for a minute more, and then she would have to head back. If she couldn't find him—_No. Don't think like that, _she thought. Nonetheless, she braced herself for the worst and continued down the bank.

After searching for another few minutes, cutting it extremely close to Fury's time limit, she nearly gave up. That is, until she caught a flash of red farther down the beach. And then, she was running, running so fast she thought her lungs would rip in two.

"Steve!" she shouted his name as she approached, falling to her knees by his side, skidding a little ungracefully in her rush.

"Steve, oh my god, _Steve,_" she breathed, her fear bubbling up to the surface again as she took in the beaten and broken flesh of his face.

She gave his whole body a once over, not failing to miss the red stain that was slowly spreading across his abdomen. She found two more gunshots—one on the back of his thigh and the other up near his shoulder. All were bleeding, and seeing as he was unconscious and she only had two hands, she couldn't put pressure on all the wounds.

She commed Fury and Hill, giving them the news that she had found Steve and that she needed a med chopper at her location. Once she cut the connection, she turned her attention back to the man lying on the beach in front of her. Doing her best to shut out the red that seemed to be all over him, she leaned down, his shallow breaths tickling her skin, and put two fingers to his neck. It took a minute, and Natasha had to remind herself to breath before she finally felt his pulse. It was slow and weak, but it was there.

"Steve," she whispered, brushing a thumb lightly over his injured cheek. "Steve, please wake up, come on."

She kept glancing at his chest to make sure it was still going up and down. He didn't move. And blood kept trickling from his wounds. _Red red red. _If the medics didn't show up soon, he'd bleed out. Though she had no desire to get any more blood on her hands—whether it was her fault or not—she covered the wound on his abdomen, warm scarlet liquid bubbling up through the cracks between her fingers.

"Come on, Steve," she muttered as she kept the pressure on his wound. "Come on, Steve. You're a fighter. Just hang on, okay? Hang on for me, Steve."

Natasha continued to whisper encouragement to him, hoping that even if he wasn't conscious, he could still hear her and would hold on just a little longer. The blood—_his blood—_stained her hands. _Red red red. Red. Red, white, and blue. _Her thoughts were fractured and all she could see was red. Red like her hair, red like her hands. She was scared. She was reaching the end of her limit. In the past four days, they'd been through hell and back, and now that it was all over, she couldn't even go and hide in an alias because she was compromised, stripped down to the bone. And yet, all she wanted was for Steve to open his eyes so she could stop seeing red and see blue instead. "Come on, Steve, _wake up!_"

Finally, the medics arrived, lifting Steve up onto a stretcher. She kept a hand on his arm till they told her to step away. Fury and Sam and come with the medics and they stood by her side, watching as they loaded Steve onto the chopper. As the stretcher was pushed on board, Natasha heard one word slip from the Captain's mouth, and somehow, she knew everything was going to be all right.

"_Natasha._"

**-:-**

**Music for this chapter:**

_**Human**_**; Christina Perri**

_**Somebody to Die For**_**; Hurts**

_**Youth**_**; Daughter**

** First, thank you for reading! **

** It took me quite a while to get this all down on paper, honestly. I was struggling a bit to find Natasha's voice, and I really wanted to get her voice down because I love her character so much. So please, **_**please **_**let me know what you thought about how I portrayed her or if you thought she sounded too OOC or anything. **

** I am really open to constructive criticism! If there are any inaccuracies you guys think I should fix, let me know! So please review! Any thoughts you guys have, any feedback, I really appreciate it, especially when first writing for fandom.**

** Also, I'm working on the second chapter now. I'm hoping to get it up soon, but if it takes a little longer than a week or so, just be patient and know that I will update as soon as I can! I'm not sure how long the story is going to be. Right now I really just have the two chapters planned out, but I will see where I am after I finish the next chapter.**

** Thanks again for reading!**

** -DaughterOfPoseidon333**

**P.S. Any mistakes are mine, and I apologize for them.**


	2. Chapter 2

**So let me just start by saying THANK YOU to everybody who reviewed, followed, and/or favorited this story! The support is amazing, and I love you all for it!**

** Also, there will be more than two chapters. I realized that one: I'm really enjoying writing for these two, and two: what I had originally planned for chapter 2 fit a lot better with a later chapter so here we are!**

** I don't own Captain America.**

** Enjoy!**

**-:-**

Natasha was tired of waiting.

She and Fury—Sam was getting checked out down the hall—had been waiting in the hospital for what felt like an eternity. And Natasha prided herself on being a pretty patient person. She had to be patient on missions, when she was interrogating. But right now, it took all her strength not to barge into the surgery room and demand answers on Steve's condition. She had taken a break from tapping her foot insistently against the pristine white tiles and was now pacing back and forth, arms crossed firmly over her chest.

Her whole world had just come crashing down around her—all her secrets, all her lies, all her covers, blown, gone with the press of a button—and she was only worried about the man in the other room who had nearly died just a couple hours ago. Yes, in the back of her mind, she was worrying about what she would do, where she would go, who she would become. She had already seen a few nurses and other hospital workers glancing at her warily, some with fear in their eyes, the TVs beside them blaring the story of the downfall of S.H.I.E.L.D. Their stares made her insides clench. They had brought Steve in and the second they recognized his—bloody—star-spangled suit, there had been no questions, no hesitation, only deliberate speed to fix him. And here she was, frightening hospital staff who were surely thinking she was going to down them with a syringe or gut them with a scalpel.

And though the fact that people would now pass her by on the street and call her a killer, a monster, it didn't seem to matter with Steve in the next room, bleeding out, hurting. Natasha never thought she would see Steve Rogers, _Captain America, _fall. He was always so steady—a rock among the tide. He got thrown around, knocked down, but he always, _always, _got back on his feet. She forgot at times that he was just as human as the rest of them. It just took a little more to cut him down. But he still fought, he tired, and he bled along with everyone else.

Natasha paused her pacing and unfolded her arms, staring down at her hands. They were still covered in Steve's blood, though it was now dry, coating her skin in a brownish-red color. Her hands shook a little as she took the in the sight of her hands, literally stained red. More red in her ledger. _Can you? Can you wipe out _that _much red? Your ledger is dripping, it's _gushing _red! _Natasha shook her head, trying to rid Loki's plaguing words from her thoughts. Words that had so often haunted her nightmares since they were uttered to her. Tucking her arms over her chest so she wouldn't have to look at them, she resumed her pacing, trying desperately to shut out any thoughts of Steve bleeding, in pain, gasping for his last breaths.

"Romanoff." Fury said suddenly, halting Natasha in the middle of her fidgeting. Giving up on her pacing, she sat down heavily in the seat next to him, slowly letting out all the air in her lungs.

"Shouldn't you stop calling me that?" She asked a little bitterly. "I've been compromised, remember? You better go with Natalia until I figure something else out."

Fury looked at her with his one good eye, and Natasha saw, for barely a fraction of a second, a flash of pity in his good eye before it disappeared, making her question if she'd really seen it or not. Nick exhaled slowly, weariness etching every line of his face. He turned away from her, staring off into space in a very-dramatic, Nick-like fashion.

"As I recall," he started slowly, voice low. "Natalia Romanova was KGB. Stolen from her childhood and turned into a killer. She also died. Years ago, in fact. She was killed when I sent Agent Barton after her."

Natasha looked at Fury, confused. She waited for him to turn to her, explain, but he continued to stare at the white wall opposite of them. Frustrated, but knowing better not to interrupt, Natasha waited for him to continue.

"Oddly enough, when Natalia died, Barton found someone else. Her name was Natasha Romanoff. Similar to Natalia in many ways, except for the small fact that Natasha is a hero." Fury finished, folding his hands across his lap.

"Don't call me that." Natasha said quietly, firmly.

"What? Natasha? Or don't call you a hero?" Nick replied, finally turning to look at her again.

"I'm not a hero." She disagreed. "You know who is a hero, though? _Steve_ is a hero. He's _Captain America_, a national icon. People look up to him. I'm nothing more than a killer and a liar. I deserve to be in there, not him."

Fury gave her a weird look, like he was seeing her for the first time.

"What?" She snapped, scowling.

He shrugged. "You've changed."

She gave him a disbelieving look. "I don't think so."

"Guess I made a good decision, after all." He continued, ignoring her comment. "Wasn't sure how it would pan out, partnering you two together, but it seems it worked out perfectly."

Natasha shifted in the hard plastic chair she was seated in, taken by surprise. Fury had partnered them together on purpose? She had wondered why, after New York, she had been set up to work with Steve and the STRIKE team, instead of working with Clint, who was then sent off on missions by himself. "You partnered us together? Playing matchmaker now, Nick?"

"Matchmaker? No," he replied, looking bemused by the thought. "I thought that you two would make a good team. You're polar opposites, yes, but you worked well together. Almost better than you and Barton. You and Barton are so much alike, but with Steve, he was there to make the calls that you never would, and vice versa."

Natasha didn't say anything, mostly because she had to admit that Fury was right. She didn't think, though, that Fury had counted on, or even thought that they would grow as close as they had. Even Natasha was surprised by the fact. Their relationship had started out strictly professional. So professional, in fact, that for the first eight months of them working together after New York, he still called her _ma'am _till she finally managed to wean him off the habit. Somewhere, in the midst of all her teasing him and teaching him little things at a time about the 21st century and him—_finally—_calling her Natasha, she realized that she had found a friend in Steve Rogers. And friends were not something she had many of. And maybe, if she was being completely honest with herself, he had become more than a friend. She didn't know _what _exactly Steve meant to her, but it felt like more than friendship. All she really knew was that she was scared as hell for him and if he died in that operating room, she didn't know what she would do.

The sudden ringing of Fury's phone broke Natasha from her thoughts. Fury muttered curses as he dug around in his pocket with his good arm till he found his phone. He glowered, until he saw the caller I.D. and his features loosened.

"Of course," he chuckled.

"Who is it?" Natasha asked, eyebrow raised in question.

"Take a guess," Fury said.

"Stark." She responded, a small, knowing smile pulling the corners of her mouth up. "Who knows, maybe he's calling to offer his condolences. Maybe he even got you flowers."

Fury glanced over at her and frowned, unamused.

"But, you know, S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsing is a pretty probable topic of conversation as well" she continued, giving Nick a smirk.

"Compromised or not, Romanoff, I can see that you managed not to lose your sarcastic touch." Fury muttered.

"It's a gift," she smiled. "And you should probably get that," she nodded her head at his phone, which was still ringing insistently.

"Not sure _gift _is the word I would use." Fury shot back, standing up as he answered Tony's call. "Stark, I'm assuming this call is _not _about my impending funeral."

Natasha gave a little laugh; an odd sound to her own ears after the week she'd had. Fury turned and gave her a genuine smile. As he listened to Stark's response, he gently leaned down to give her leg a comforting squeeze before he walked off down the brightly lit hallway, turning a corner and disappearing, leaving Natasha alone. She dreaded Fury leaving, as it left her with nothing but the sterile walls and floors and her own ugly, bloody, horrifying thoughts.

She didn't have to wait long, though, before a doctor came through the double doors that led to the operating room. Natasha immediately stood. The doctor—a man who looked to be in his mid to late-thirties, with close-cropped hair and square wire glasses—noticed her and came over.

"You're here for Captain Am—um, excuse me, Mr. Rogers?" he asked, looking at her kindly, so unlike half of the staff she'd encountered already that day.

"Yes." Natasha responded, nearly smiling at the doctor's error. The doctor almost calling him _Captain America _was a perfect example of what she had told Fury. People looked up to Steve. They saw the red, white, and blue uniform and knew exactly who he was.

"I'm Doctor Ellis, Mr. Roger's primary surgeon." He replied.

"How is he?" Natasha asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.

"He's stable right now," Ellis replied, his voice reassuring.

Natasha breathed a sigh of relief, one that she hadn't known she'd been holding in.

"He lost a lot of blood," Dr. Ellis started to explain. "He suffered three GSWs, a stab wound. He has contusions—some quite severe—covering most of his chest…"

Dr. Ellis continued to list off Steve injuries, and Natasha stopped listening, knowing there was nothing she could do about it anyway.

"We believe he'll pull through just fine." Ellis finished.

Natasha nodded, feeling at least a little better. Steve was going to be okay. "When can I go see him?"

"Now, if you'd like." Ellis replied. "We're moving him to a private room. We thought that would be best. You can get cleaned up there as well," the doctor looked down at her blood-stained hands.

"Oh, yeah. Thank you," Natasha murmured.

With a warm smile, Dr. Ellis led her down the hall to a bank of elevators. They stepped inside and went up to the third floor, the elevator delivering them to a hallway with the same white tiles and walls as the first floor. They walked down the hall, then took three turns. _Right, left, right, _Natasha thought to herself, memorizing their path just in case a quick escape was necessary.

Steve's room was the fourth one down on the right. Ellis opened the door and stepped aside to allow Natasha to enter. The second her eyes landed on Steve, her heart climbed up into her throat. Under the brightness of the light above his bed, he looked awful. The bruises and cuts on his normally flawless face stood starkly out against the pallor of his skin. He was attached to multiple IVs that were, no doubt, feeding him morphine and other assorted pain killers. And, due to his enhanced metabolism, they were probably giving him drugs in amounts that were enough to down a couple hundred people. Underneath the collar of his hospital gown she could see purplish-black bruises spreading across the muscles of his chest. But, despite it all, his eyes were shut and he looked downright peaceful.

"I know it looks bad," Ellis said quietly, coming up beside her. "He's strong, though. He'll be up on two feet in no time."

Natasha swallowed, not knowing what to do. She had always been a woman of action, constantly in the thick of things. She was always doing _something, _but here and now, there wasn't a damn thing she could do and that frustrated her to know end. She wanted to help. She wanted to help Steve like he had helped her so many times before. But standing in his hospital room, listening to the steady beeping of the monitors beside him, her blood stained hands wringing together, she knew, ultimately, there was nothing she could do but wait.

"You said there was a bathroom I could use?" she said quietly, though she didn't turn to look at the doctor.

"Uh, yes. right across the hall, actually." Ellis responded.

"Thank you," Natasha said earnestly, pivoting to face the doctor.

"No, thank you," the doctor said.

Natasha's heart skipped a beat, wondering if the doctor was not nearly as nice a man as she had originally thought. But, scanning his features, she saw nothing but genuine kindness that radiated from his small smile and brown eyes.

"For what?" she asked, still cautious, just in case his answer was something she did not agree with.

"Well, I was trying to figure out where I'd seen you before," he said, looking a little sheepish.

_One exit, _Natasha thought, glancing around the room in hopes of seeing anything she could use as a weapon. Was it possible that Ellis was a Hydra agent? If so, they sure as hell mobilized fast. If it was just Ellis, she could easily take him. Though he was a little taller than her, he wasn't very big.

"I recognize you from the news." Ellis said, and Natasha relaxed. Though, being recognized as the crazy-KGB-assassin-turned-S.H.I.E.L.D.-agent wasn't much better. She would almost rather fight.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Ellis continued. "I mean, I saw what happened to your agency, but I recognize you from the broadcasts after New York. You see, my wife, she was in New York when the aliens attacked." Ellis swallowed, his eyes distant as if he was remembering watching the news as the Battle of New York raged on, and was remembering the worry and fear he'd felt for his wife.

Natasha's defensive stance fell away completely, and a thorn of sympathy stabbed its way into her heart.

"A lot of people are alive because of what you and Captain Rogers and the other Avengers did." Ellis said. "My wife says she saw you outside the building she was in, fighting the aliens. I just, I wanted to thank you. My wife might not be here if it wasn't for you. I've seen some of the staff giving you looks, but you should ignore them. You're a hero and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

There was that word again. _Hero. _Natasha didn't know what to say, but she managed a smile. Ellis seemed to understand her lack of words, gave her one last smile and a nod, and then quietly left the room. Taking a deep breath, Natasha made her way over to Steve's bed and plopped down in the plastic chair beside it.

"I really wish people would stop calling me a hero," she whispered, even though Steve couldn't hear her. She took his hand, the one closest to her, in between her own. His skin was warm in between her cold fingers. But that was just Steve. He was light and warmth and everything good in the world. She, on the other hand, was shadow. Darkness. She was fire, and even though fire burned hot, it was the wrong kind of heat, the wrong kind of warmth. She was the kind of fire that destroyed. She was no hero.

All of the sudden, the last week seemed to catch up to her and a strangled sob escaped her throat. A few traitor tears slipped down her cheeks, dotting the white sheets of Steve's bed. She sucked in gasping breaths, hands shaking. She gripped Steve's hand tightly, turning his fingers white, but he didn't stir. She felt as if all the cracks in the shell she had perfectly constructed over the years were finally meeting, spreading, creating fissures in her being. Everything she had ever known was in flames. S.H.I.E.L.D., once so strong and whole, swallowed by the beast that was—_is—_Hydra, all in the matter of a few days. Her whole life, dumped on the ground in front of her, free for all. Everything she'd ever done, for this country and against it, open to prying, judging eyes. She felt fragile, utterly and completely breakable. Thin as a piece of paper, victim to the flames around her, turning her will to ash. And the only person she wanted to talk to about all of this was unconscious beside her.

Since she couldn't talk, she cried. Natasha could not recall the last time she'd cried or even if she ever had, at least not since the Red Room. She would be lying if she said it didn't feel good to let it all go. Tears spilled from her eyes and she allowed Steve's hand to slip from her own as she slid off her chair and collapsed to the floor, curling in on herself. Sobs wracked her body. She sounded like a wounded animal—lost, in pain, wanting nothing more than for it to all just _stop. _

Fury found her an hour later. The tears had long since stopped, but she had crawled into the corner and tucked her knees up to her chest, feeling utterly and completely empty, like she had cried out everything. Nick led her to the bathroom where he ordered her to wash her hands. She did so numbly, watching the water run from her hands a rusty red-brown color.

"Stark saw what happened on the news." Fury said solemnly as she worked to clean up her face. "Said he's already got reporters at the doors of Stark Tower, demanding to know if he had any part in this. Also said he's working on locking down S.H.I.E.L.D.s server until we can figure out what to do with it."

Natasha remained silent, afraid that if she tried to talk, she'd break down again.

"He told me to tell you that you and Steve are welcome to stay at the Tower," Fury added, trying to meet her gaze in the mirror.

"I'm not going to the Tower." She replied hollowly. "Not yet, anyway."

"Then what do you plan on doing?" Fury asked.

Natasha shut the water off. Without the noise of the faucet, the quiet was deafening. She turned around, bracing her hands against the sink as she looked at Nick.

"I don't know." She admitted, hating the way her voice hitched just the slightest.

"It's okay not to know, Romanoff." Fury reasoned. "Though, some press wouldn't be a bad idea. Some sleep would probably be good, too—you look like crap."

Natasha rolled her eyes, a smile breaking through. "Gee, thanks. I appreciate the support, really."

"I'm serious about the sleep though, Natasha. Wilson's here. He can watch Rogers until you get back."

Natasha sighed, knowing he was right. And sleep sounded pretty great. She was sure she would only get a couple hours before the nightmares would torment her till she woke up screaming, but even a little bit of sleep would be good.

"Okay," she agreed quietly.

Fury didn't say anything, but Natasha didn't need him to, and he slipped out with barely a sound. Natasha made her way over to Steve's room. She stepped over next to his bed and gently ran a hand through his hair.

"I'll be back," she murmured. "Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone."

"I'll make sure he doesn't try anything too heroic," a voice said, a Natasha turned to see Sam leaning against the doorjamb.

Sam looked exhausted, and Natasha wanted to take his place and sit vigil over Steve. She'd gone with less sleep than what she was running on now, but she also knew that it wouldn't be wise to stay. Waiting for Steve to wake up would deteriorate her already fragile state even more.

"Take care of him." She said firmly.

"I will." Sam promised.

With one last glance at Steve, Natasha made her way out of his room, not looking back because she knew if she did, she would run right back into his room. As she made her way through the halls of the hospital, she held her head high. Exposed or not, she was still the Black Widow. She was strong, even at her weakest point. She would go back to her apartment, try and get some sleep, then probably pack up her meager belongings. She would check up on Steve. She would do some press, and she would make sure the world knew exactly who she was and what she was still willing to do to survive. Because that's what she was. Not a hero, or a savior. She wasn't a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, not anymore. She wasn't even Natalia Romanova. No, she was Natasha Romanoff and she was a survivor.

**-:-**

**Music for this chapter:**

_**Grow; **_**Rae Morris**

_**Wait; **_**M83**

_**Skinny Love; **_**Birdy**

**So there's chapter two! Hope you guys liked it! Looking at the story again, not sure exactly how many chapters it will be, but I'm thinking right now it'll be about four or five. So, stay tuned!**

**And please review! I really like hearing your guys' thoughts, and would love to hear some more! Let me know anything you liked, stuff you didn't like, any inaccuracies you would like to point out, anything! It really does mean a lot to me!**

**And once again, a disclaimer to Shadows of a Dream and her story Be My Shield, because there were a few more ideas in this chapter that were inspired by her story. She's an amazing writer, so a big thanks to her.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**-DaughterOfPoseidon333**


	3. Chapter 3

**SO let me just start by saying THANK YOU everybody for all the reviews and the favorites and the follows! You are all so amazing and wonderful and know that I am so grateful that you read my story and enjoy it so much!**

**I definitely meant to update sooner. I'm not really sure what happened, but thank you for the patience :)**

**I don't own anything.**

**Enjoy!**

**-:-**

When Steve had woken up after being on ice for 70 years, he had felt out of place. There was no sound of distant gunfire, no sound of orders being shouted or jeeps being driven, no squeak of the bunk next to him as his fellow soldiers woke. That's when he had first known something was wrong. He had woken far too easily. So easily, in fact, that it was downright peaceful. A peace that had been fabricated for his benefit. Because, though he hadn't really expected to wake at all, he _definitely _hadn't expected to wake up in a different century. If only Bucky had known how right he'd been when he had said they were going to the future…

As Steve woke now, it was harder. He struggled to pull himself out from underneath unconsciousness and the haze of drugs that took away his pain but made his thoughts fuzzy. He swallowed as he tried to open his eyes. His throat felt dry, full of cotton. His eyelids felt so, _so _heavy. Couldn't he just stay like this forever? It would be so much easier, to stay unconscious, to not be responsible for the weight of the world on his shoulders, to not have to live with the pain and the guilt and the nightmares. But then again, he never had been the one to take the easy way out. So, fighting back his exhaustion and the drugs he could feel coursing through his limbs, making them heavy, he tried again to open his eyes.

Everything was fuzzy at first, nothing more than a blurry mess of possible shapes and maybe-outlines. Then the shapes and outlines took color, though there wasn't much color. Whites and tans and beiges. White, mostly, though. _Hospital, _he thought, surprised he could even form that much of a coherent thought. His head felt heavy, like lead, weighing him down and urging him to slip back under. As he managed to fully open his eyes, the colors and shapes fully formed, indeed creating a picture of a hospital room around him. As he took in the room around him, trying to move his head as little as possible, his gaze fell upon a familiar form.

"On your left," he croaked out, voice rough from disuse.

He saw Sam turn his head at the sound of his voice, giving Steve a small smile.

"Yeah, that's real funny, especially considering how freaked you're had us all, thinking you weren't going to wake up." Sam said, sounding a little scolding, though his friend looked relieved that Steve had opened his eyes.

"How long have I been out?" Steve asked, attempting to clear his throat.

"Almost a week."

Steve worked to think back. _A week. _He remembered being on the Helicarrier. _Bucky. _The Helicarrier falling from the sky, so much like Red Skull's plane. Falling and burning, smoke covering the blue of the sky gray and black. _You're my mission! _Glass shattering, metal groaning. _Then finish it. 'Cause I'm with you till the end of the line. _An explosion. Fire and heat, the world around him colored orange and yellow with flames. Then, falling, falling from the sky. _Falling, falling, falling. _Falling till he drowned. Water so cold, cold like the ice. A metal hand reaching out for him. Then everything went black.

"What happened?" Steve asked. "The Helicarriers went down, but what about S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D.s gone," Sam replied solemnly. "There are still Hydra agents out there, but for right now, it seems like they're laying low."

Steve nodded, but didn't say anything. So, the mission had succeeded. They had managed to take down S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve knew that, eventually, it would be rebuilt. There were still plenty of them out there loyal to the agency. Hydra, on the other hand…well, they didn't know how many of them there were, who went down with the ship and who just went into hiding. There were too many questions regarding the agency he had once dedicated his life to taking down, and not enough answers. It all just made his head hurt worse than it already did.

Sam continued to tell him what had happened since they (or rather Natasha) had found him on the beach. Steve listened quietly. He didn't have anything to say, and talking also took a lot of energy. He just felt drained. Every movement either hurt, like a thousand needles piercing his skin, or exhausted him. As Sam spoke, Steve moved to sit up a little further in bed, and by the time he had finished doing so, a sheen of sweat had broken out over his forehead, every muscle ached anew, and his breaths came out in little pants. He wasn't used to feeling this way, not since the super-soldier serum had been injected into his body. Then again, he'd never fought someone with a metal arm before.

"I'm gonna go find a nurse." Sam said suddenly, interrupting Steve's thoughts.

Too tired to even protest, Steve nodded, watching as Sam pulled himself up out of his chair and walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. Steve knew it was best not to dwell, so he pushed all thoughts of his metal-armed, brain-washed best friend out of his mind. Besides, it wasn't like he could do anything at the moment anyway. Even the _thought _of walking made him want to keel over.

Steve probably would have nodded off again if Sam didn't come back with the nurse just then. The nurse—a petite blonde who Natasha probably would have told him to ask out on a date—smiled kindly and used gentle hands as she checked his bandages. After a few minutes of watching her work, the nurse injected more drugs into his IV. Steve, with his still exhausted and drug-addled brain wouldn't have been able to say what kind of drugs they were if the nurse had told him. All he knew was that he felt the effects immediately. The pain that he'd started to feel again lessened and his lids started to get heavy. The nurse left and Sam took her place by Steve's bedside. Sam laid a hand comfortingly on his shoulder, which Steve barely felt.

"Get some rest." Sam advised. "Just make sure you wake up in this century, okay?"

The last thing Steve did before he slipped back under was smile.

As he slept, he dreamt.

The dreams he had were fragmented, bits and pieces of scenes and memories. Vivid, the colors burning against the white canvas of his mind. _I'm gonna need a rain check on that dance. _Cerulean sky, pearly clouds, very picturesque if he ignored the fact that he was in a plane only destined to go down. _All right. A week next Saturday at The Stork Club. Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?_ He wanted to say yes, of course he understood. But he couldn't bring himself to utter the words. They wouldn't have made it past the lump in his throat, anyway. _You know, I still don't know how to dance. _He was going to die. He knew that. Peggy was smart. She knew he wasn't going to make it either. _I'll show you how. Just be there. _The plane was coming closer and closer to the ground. More specifically, ice. Ice as far as he could see. He could already feel the cold seeping in from the broken window. He would've been shivering if the adrenaline coursing through his veins wasn't making him feel like he was on fire. _We'll have the band play something slow. I'd hate to step on your—_

A dark place with cages. Cages for men like they were animals. Shadowed hallways and a room with a table where his best friend lay. Steve wonders if they used a table like that when they took his arm or when they brainwashed him. _I thought you were dead. _Relieved that he isn't. _I thought you were smaller. _Tested on or not, he was still Bucky. Bucky who followed him out of the place with the cages and leapt over fire, fire like Hell brought to life. Bucky who refused to leave until Steve had made the hurdle as well.

Then, the other side of the coin, another place with snow and ice. _Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island? _Memories within memories. A laugh at old times right before the bad times, the worst of times. Everything always started according to plan. They were flying. Just like on the Helicarrier. Sailing through the sky. Only that time—that bad time that started as a good time—they were flying on a wire. Their lives depended on a single thread. How a piece of string suspended in space ending up being safer than the walls of a train, Steve had no idea. Then it was just the two of them. A team, like old times.

Things went wrong when Steve lost his shield. Then, Bucky was the one with the red, white, and blue. The one with the white star, before he became the one with the red star. Then Steve was reaching out his hand. They were opposite. Bucky had always been the one to reach out his hand, to pick Steve up off the ground after a fight, to help him brush off the dust. Bucky had been the strong one. Now, it seemed, like _he _was the strong one, but he was only strong with Bucky by his side. So Bucky was still the strong one. And Bucky continued to hold on, on to the railing as Steve reached out his hand. And he was _so close. _So close. And then Bucky fell. _Bucky! _Steve had always looked up to Bucky, and now Bucky looked up to him as he fell. Opposite again as Steve fell from the ship in the sky. Back to normal as he, once again, looked up at Bucky. Like old times, once again, as he watched the flames dance. _Till the end of the line._

Then there were the new times. The images came faster now. New York when he woke up and New York during the Battle. Leaving New York because it wasn't _his _New York. The lies and the secrets that consumed Peggy's agency, the agency he now worked for. Dark. The world was so dark. All lit up by one little flame. Deadly, _beautiful, _her hair a fiery red. _Just hang on, okay? Hang on for me, Steve. _Red hair, fair skin, covered in black, like her namesake. _Come on, Steve, wake up! _Poise and precision, a predator. A killer who radiated life. She was a beacon. He focused on her light, on her warmth, on her strength, on _her. _

Steve's eyes snapped open. The images of his dreams faded away. He turned, expecting to see Sam—

"Natasha," he said quietly, mostly because he didn't think he could talk any louder.

"Hey, Cap." She gave him a sideways smile, her eyes alight with relief and the spark of amusement she seemed to always carry with her.

At the sight of her, Steve relaxed. Somehow, she had become an anchor for him. Despite her multiple identities and her dark and daunting past, she was one of the most real things in his life as of late. And seeing her now, whole, smiling despite the exhaustion lining her features, he felt better. Looking at her, he vaguely remembered seeing her first on the beach. In that moment, as he'd drifted in and out of consciousness, bleeding and broken, she'd tethered him to reality, urged him to hold on. In that moment, she had given him hope, even as the world around him burned and smoked.

Steve moved to sit up and Natasha's hands immediately shot out. Whether she reached out to help him or keep him lying down, he couldn't be sure, but he waved her off nonetheless. She pinched her full lips together, watching him, and he could see her struggling not to assist him. It took him a minute to sit up, but less time than it did when Sam had been there. Steve blew out a breath. It had been a long time since he'd been this weak. Since taking the super soldier serum had been injected in him, he was so used to being strong, able to stand tall even when his enemies tried to knock him down. Fighting Bucky had taken more out of him than he had realized. And not just physically, either. He was still working on processing the fact that his best friend was _alive. _

"Do you want me to get a nurse?" Natasha asked gently, taking up her seat next to his bed, and moving the chair closer so she was right beside him.

Steve shook his head. "No."

"Steve—"

"I'm okay right now." He interrupted. If she went and got the nurse, the nurse would give him more drugs and he would go back to sleep. He didn't want to sleep anymore. "Really, Nat. I'll let you know if it hurts."

"Okay," she agreed, the wrinkle in her brow the only indication of how worried she actually was.

"How are _you _holding up?" he asked.

Natasha raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You're worried about _me_?"

He nodded, giving her a one-sided shrug with his good shoulder.

"If I'm remembering correctly, you got shot three times, stabbed, beaten to a pulp, nearly drowned, and then passed out for a week, and you're worried about _me_?"

"Just humor me, all right?"

A small smile was playing on her lips, but her gray-green eyes were serious. "I'm fine, I guess. Shoulder's healing up just fine."

"And how are you feeling about having your whole life open for the world to see?" he questioned softly, watching her expression.

She glanced away from him, staring at her hands, as if seeing something on them that he couldn't. He studied her, realizing quite suddenly that he wanted to draw her. He imagined sketching out the soft curves of her body that covered the hardened muscles underneath. He could see in his head the way his pencil would move to trace the outline of her full lips, the way her hair fell around her face in a fiery curtain, the nimble, skillful hands that so often were curled into fists.

"I don't know," she whispered in answer to his question, though she refused to meet his gaze. "Guess I just have to figure out who I'm going to be, since all my covers are blown."

"Well…" Steve started slowly. "Why can't you just stay being Natasha?"

She looked up then, the surprise evident on her face as her eyes widened and her mouth formed a small, uncertain little _o. _She looked almost taken aback, but also a little dumbfounded, like the thought had never occurred to her.

"Is that who you want me to be?" she asked in the same quiet tone as before, reminding him of their conversation in the car days ago. _Who do you want me to be? How about a friend. _

"Yes." he replied, meeting her eyes with his own. He still wanted her as a friend. He'd come to trust her immensely in the past couple weeks. But more than that, he wanted her to just stay the person he'd come to know—Natasha. Natasha was strong and deadly and independent and funny. Natasha was _beautiful. _Steve didn't want her to lose all of that by assuming a new identity. He wanted her to stay being Natasha. She was one of the first people he'd met after coming out of the ice, and he felt like, if she let go of Natasha, he'd lose her as well. He'd lose the part of him that was anchored to the world by her.

"Being Natasha isn't so bad, I suppose." She smiled softly. "I'll think about keeping her around a little while longer."

"Good. I'd like that." He responded.

He leaned over to grab the glass of water on the bedside table, but stopped as bolts of pain arced throughout his body. He gasped putting a hand to his abdomen. Natasha was already standing, easing him gently back against his pillow. He gritted his teeth, breathing in slowly. Natasha grabbed the water and brought it over to him. He tried to take the glass from her, but she pulled it out of his reach.

"Let me." She whispered.

Steve tried to protest, wanted to say that he could do it, but Natasha shushed him.

"Just let me baby you for a minute here, okay?" she urged.

The dryness of his tongue and throat eventually won over and he allowed Natasha to cradle the back of his head gently, bringing the glass of water to his parched lips with her other hand. He gulped down several mouthfuls, before Natasha took the glass away. And, he might have imagined it, but he thought her fingers lingered at the nape of his neck a second longer than they normally would have. But then her hand was gone and she was sitting down again and he was sure it was just the exhaustion.

"You know, Steve," she started. "It's okay to need help every once in a while. And if I'm being honest—"

"You? Honest?" he teased, giving her a smirk.

She looked like she was trying hard not to laugh. "You're really lucky I'm feeling sympathetic about you being hurt; otherwise you definitely would've just gotten a fist right in those pretty little stiches you're sporting."

Steve chuckled. "I'm sorry. Continue, please."

"_Anyway,_" she smiled. "I'm not very good at admitting when I need help. I don't like relying on others. But, I guess…working with you these past couple years, I've learned that it's okay to lean on someone else every once in a while. It doesn't necessarily mean you're weak, but more so that you're strong enough to admit that you can't do everything by yourself all the time."

She paused, as if uncertain about what she was admitting.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm here for you." she continued. "Especially now. Super soldier or not, you're still human, Steve. You have saved my life multiple times now, so just let me start repaying the favor. Let me shield you for a while."

Steve stared at her for a moment, so unsure of what to say. The whole time he'd known Natasha, she'd never been that open, that honest, all at one time. Her truthfulness was so sudden, that for the moment, he was dumfounded.

"Okay." He nodded in agreement.

"Speaking of…" Natasha trailed off, reaching back behind her, just out of Steve's line of sight.

What she pulled out almost surprised Steve more than her honesty. The round vibranium disk was wasn't dented in the slightest, thanks to the metal it was forged from, but it still showed the signs of all that it had been through in the past days. The red, white, and blue paint was mostly there, but still missing in several places. Scorch marks covered its surface like scars. In all honesty, Steve wasn't sure he'd ever see the shield again. Natasha laid the object gently across his legs, the lightweight metal causing him no pain. He ran his fingers over its surface.

"We fished it out of the Potomac for you." Natasha explained without him even having to ask. "It's in good shape. The straps are a little waterlogged, but those can be replaced. Stark said he'd fix it up for you. Said he's even looking for some vibranium he can forge into a spare for you. I told him that was probably a good idea. Just in case you decided to go dropping it out of a plane again."

Steve smiled at her, then lifted the shield up towards her. "There's not a whole lot I can do with it right now. You should hang on to it. Especially if you're going to be shielding me and all until I can get out of this bed."

"Fair enough." She said, taking the shield from him, and setting it up against the bedside table, this time, where just enough of the rim was poking out that he could see it.

Feeling exhaustion creeping up on him once again, he settled back against his pillow, not even objecting when Natasha paged the nurse. As more drugs entered his system, his lids weighing down till all light vanished, the last thing he saw was her bright red hair. He thought he even felt her fingers brush against his, if even for a fraction of a second. Steve didn't really want to sleep anymore, but with her there, it wasn't so bad. Just as he was about to drift off, he let one word slip past his lips, just like on the beach when she found him.

"_Natasha._"

He would have said more, would have asked her if he could draw her sometime, asked her if she would slip her arm through his shield so he could see her holding it. He would have asked her so many things, but he was already too far gone. He just hoped that when he woke up, she wouldn't be gone too.

**-:-**

**Music for this chapter:**

_**Dauoalogn; **_**Sigur Ros (Steve's dream sequence especially)**

_**Sleeping at the Wheel; **_**Matchbox Twenty**

_**Broken; **_**Seether feat. Amy Lee**

**So there's chapter 3! Hope you guys liked it! **

**Just a little note on Steve's dream sequence, it was meant to come out super fragmented, just bits and pieces of thought at a time, flashes of memory, that kind of thing, so I hope it read that way!**

**Also, there will definitely be one more chapter, and that next chapter will be really where Steve and Natasha's relationship peaks in this story. And I will try to get that up sooner than I got this one up!**

**Please review! The feedback has been wonderful so far, and I really appreciate it, so keep 'em coming! I love hearing your guys' thoughts!**

**Thank you for reading!**

**-DaughterOfPoseidon333**


	4. Chapter 4

**All right, here's chapter 4! Thank you everybody for all the support and the wonderful feedback on this story! It means so much to me!**

** Also, a quick disclaimer to my friend, Shadows of a Dream. Her story, Be My Shield (five times we touched) is absolutely amazing, you guys should definitely check it out! Some of the ideas (mostly for my earlier chapters) came from her story and I just want to give her a shout out for being so amazing!**

** I don't own Captain America.**

**Enjoy!**

**-:-**

Steve stepped off the elevator into the small, foyer-like entryway that held only a single door that led into his floor of the Stark Tower. Steve was glad he had an actual door. Tony already barged in often enough without so much as a warning, he couldn't imagine how bad it would be if the elevator was the only thing between him and everyone else. Unlocking his door, he stepped inside and set his keys down on the table by the door, flipping on the lights as he did so. The light switches he had asked for. It had been one of the conditions of him living there. Granted, after D.C. and his old apartment getting compromised along with the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D., he hadn't anywhere else to go, but still. He was still getting used to modern times. The last thing he needed was some fancy, touch-screen-type wall pad thing that he needed to press a million buttons on just to turn the lights on. So Tony had put all normal light switches on his floor. The only high-tech gadget left was a console built into the wall a few feet away from the door that JARVIS operated from, but only in times of emergency.

Steve set his bags down right by the door, headed over to his couch, and plopped down. It had been seven months since he'd been back here. He'd come to the Tower briefly so he could move in, right after parting ways with Natasha and Fury in the cemetery. But since then, he'd been looking for Bucky with Sam. They'd had no luck, with hardly a lead anywhere, so they'd decided to give it a break. Sam had gone back to his place in D.C. and Steve had come back to New York. Sighing, Steve ran his hands down his face. He glanced down at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He was about to consider falling asleep right there on the couch when there was a knock at his door.

Frowning, Steve pushed himself off the couch, wondering who it could be. It certainly wasn't Tony—he just invited himself in whenever he wanted. He thought it could be Pepper for a moment, but she wouldn't be visiting him at this late of an hour, not unless it was urgent. Which, if it was that bad, JARVIS would have probably come to life and told him so. But when Steve opened the door, it was neither of them. He felt his jaw drop slightly in surprise.

"Natasha?" he said incredulously, not quite believing that she was there.

"Hey, soldier. Miss me?" she greeted, eyes twinkling with amusement, probably at his dumbfounded state. Her hair was several inches shorter than the last time he'd seen her, the tips brushing the tops of her shoulders, similar to the length it had been when they'd first met. She hadn't straightened it either, meaning it was loose and wavy, which, though he would never say it, he liked better. She was wearing a loose fitting black tee, jeans, and a pair of black boots. No jacket, making him wonder if she'd settled in on a different floor.

Steve felt a little flutter in his stomach at the sight of her. He'd spoken to her a few times on the phone, but hadn't actually seen her in person in seven months. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed her till now. The past months, an ache had started to form in the pit of his stomach. It was different than the feeling of needing to find his best friend—_save_ his best friend. No the ache that had been growing was an empty feeling, the feeling of needing something so desperately but he'd been unable to reach what it was that he needed. Or rather _who _he needed. _Her. _The ache had been for Natasha. He didn't know that until now, when she was standing two feet in front of him, hand on her hip, easy smile playing on her lips. He wasn't sure exactly _why _he'd been feeling this way—like he was empty without her by his side—but he thought it had something to do with the fact that, ever since they'd been forced on the run together months ago, with no one to trust but each other, she had taken root in a corner of his heart that he thought he'd closed off long ago. She was embedded in him, like a thorn. Deadly. Probably a bad idea to let her get to him anymore than she already had. But then again, on the end of every thorn was a rose. And roses weren't anything if not beautiful.

"So, you gonna stand there and stare at me all night, or are you gonna let me in?" Natasha asked with a smirk, breaking Steve from his reverie.

"Oh, uh, yeah," he stammered. "Sorry—yeah, um, come on in."

He stepped aside to let her in, breathing in the coconut scent from her shampoo as she passed by. She pursed her lips, looking around the floor. Steve had also made it abundantly clear to Tony that he didn't want to come back to the Tower and see his floor full of appliances and technology he didn't even know how to operate. Luckily, the only thing Tony had put in his apartment was a huge flat screen that was mounted on the wall right in front of his couch. Other than that, his place was furnished quite simply. His couch was tan. He had a coffee table in front of it, made of a smooth dark wood. He had bookshelves against one wall. Everything was neat and orderly, and hardly looked lived in at all. Which, it really hadn't been. He'd been gone for months.

"Nice place," Natasha commented, then headed towards the direction of the kitchen. "You got anything to drink?"

"Um, I don't know, actually. I just got back," He replied. "But there's probably some beer in there. Tony tends to keep it stocked, as more of a joke, I think, since I can't—"

"Get drunk." Natasha finished for him. There _was _beer in his fridge and she pulled one out, effortlessly twisting the cap off. "Yeah, I read that in your file. Well, when you _had _a file."

She walked past him, heading back towards the conjoined living room, teasing smile on her face. "Shame, too," she continued, voice low. "I bet you'd be fun with a couple of shots in you."

Steve tracked her movements, too flustered to come up with a good comeback. Natasha collapsed onto the couch, kicking her feet up on his coffee table, looking like she owned the place. Steve joined her, sitting close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her body, but far enough away that they weren't touching, though he suspected she wouldn't mind if they were. He felt the urge to reach out and run his fingers down her arm, make sure she was real and that his exhausted brain wasn't making things up. As if sensing his thoughts, Natasha set her beer bottle down and looked at him, her green-eyed gaze gentle.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just tired."

"Your search for Bucky." It wasn't a question. "How's that going, anyway?"

"About as well as you would think," He muttered.

"That bad, huh?" she arched an eyebrow.

"There's just…_nothing. _No trace of him anywhere. It's like he just up and vanished." Steve said, a hint of the hopelessness he was feeling creeping its way into his tone. Natasha heard it right away.

"Look at me, Steve," she ordered firmly, gently. He did as she asked. "If anyone can find him, it's you. I thought Captain America didn't give up?"

He smiled a little at that. "I'm not giving up. I just don't know what to do. It doesn't seem fair, you know? I mean, I couldn't—I couldn't save him the first time…he fell and I…" he trailed off, trying to banish the nightmarish images of Bucky, falling to his death, from his mind. He felt Natasha's cover his own where it sat on his knee, the pressure of her fingers squeezing his comforting.

"Bucky saved me," Steve continued. "He pulled me from that river. _He remembered. _It probably wasn't much, but he remembered _something. _I just wish I could find him and help him."

"Maybe he doesn't want to be found," Natasha suggested. "If he remembered, like you said, he's probably confused and is just trying to figure things out. Give it some time. When he's ready to be found, he'll probably come find you."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "Yeah, you're probably right. Gettin' wise, Romanoff."

"Mm, yeah, that's funny. I thought wisdom came with age." She countered teasingly.

He laughed. "Walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"A little bit." She grinned.

"What about you, Nat?" he asked, not wanting to talk about Bucky anymore and the fact that, despite how many times Bucky had saved him, he couldn't even return the favor.

"What _about _me?" she questioned.

"Just wondering what you've been up to," he clarified. "Are you staying here, at the Tower?"

"Yeah. I've been here for three weeks now. I was moving around before that," she explained. "Even though I did some press after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, I've still got people wanting to talk to me. Plus, I had enemies _before _I dumped my whole file online, now it's just easier for them to get to me. I'm dodging reporters on one side and people with agendas on the other."

"I'm sorry," Steve said, though he wasn't really sure what he was apologizing for.

"It was my choice to release my file. You don't have to apologize for that." She exhaled slowly, taking her hand away from his. It had sat there so long, Steve had forgotten she'd placed it there. He felt like he should return the favor, squeeze her fingers in reassurance, but he had the feeling she wouldn't appreciate the gesture.

"It hasn't been easy," she admitted, staring down at her hands. "But, it hasn't been all bad I suppose. I found Clint, after I left the cemetery."

"How's he doing?"

"Fine. I pulled him out of an op he'd been running for months. He was still undercover when it all went to hell in D.C. Pulled him out just in time, too. Let's just say we left a few bodies for Hydra to find."

Steve gave a little noise of approval. The more Hydra agents they put down, the less likely chance the parasitic agency had of bouncing back as strongly as it had the first time.

"What's Barton doing now?" Steve asked.

"He's been infiltrating ops that S.H.I.E.L.D. had running, the ones that haven't already been abandoned. He's been rounding up any loyal agents and putting an arrow through anyone who isn't," Natasha explained. "He calls every week to let us know what's going on. He's been able to rescue a lot of agents, but it seems like the Hydra agents just won't stop coming."

"'Cut off one head, two more shall take its place'," Steve murmured.

"Exactly," she responded just as quietly. "Anyway, since I've been here, I've been working with Maria and Tony, keeping in touch with Fury. We've been keeping track of who's still loyal, who's not. Tony's working on setting up a secure database for us that can only be accessed from this building. Certain floors, only, to minimize who can access it. The Tower's been serving as a refuge for any S.H.I.E.L.D. agents that want or need it, until they can find employment elsewhere. For the time being at least."

"So you're really going to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D.?" uncertainty laced his words. He couldn't help but doubt their plan to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D.; not after how sour it had gone the first time.

Natasha seemed to understand his doubt immediately. "Yes, we're rebuilding it, but it will take some time. A lot of time. Who knows, we could be dead by the time it actually happens. But whenever it does, it won't be like before. We're going to make it the agency it was meant to be in the first place."

"You sound so sure," he commented. "You're always so sure of yourself."

Natasha gave a low laugh. "Yeah, not right now I'm not."

"You mean trying to find a new cover,"

"Like I said, hasn't exactly been easy," she said ruefully.

Steve paused. "And? Was I wrong to have called you Natasha?"

Nat smiled, shaking her head a little, knocking loose a strand of hair. Steve had the urge to tuck it back into place, to let his fingers linger against her sift skin as he did so.

"No, Natasha works just fine," she replied.

"What made you change your mind?" he inquired. "About creating a new cover?"

"I don't know." She shrugged, mouth turning down in a slight frown, eyes turning hard as she looked away from him. "Doesn't really matter, does it? I mean, the whole world knows my face so it doesn't matter if I create a new cover or not. Everybody knows who I am."

There was an anger, a bitterness to her tone, and as she crossed her arms over her chest, and Steve knew she was shutting him out again. There was a deeper reason as to why she'd chosen not to make a new name for herself, more to her struggle to figure out who she was and how she now presented herself to the world, but she'd put her walls up again. Steve clenched his hands, feeling frustrated. While they'd been on the run together, it seemed like he had been able to kick down and break through some of the walls she built up around herself. But now, now she was tense, cold and emotionless beside him, so much like the spider from which she was named.

"Natasha, don't do this—" he tried to say, tone pleading.

She stood up abruptly. "I need another beer."

She headed towards the kitchen. He looked at her beer on the table. It was still half full. Steve pushed himself off the couch and made his way over to her. She had slammed the fridge shut and just as she was about to open another beer, he caught her arm. She glared at him, her green eyes like stone.

"Let go of me, Steve," she said firmly, not doing a very good job of hiding the edge of danger in her tone. "I don't want to hurt you."

Instead of replying, he took the beer from her hand and set it on the counter. She didn't protest, telling him that the fight she was putting up was mostly an act, just a ploy to shut him out. Once the beer was out of reach, he let go of her arm. They stared each other down. Well, Steve stared down. Natasha was a good five, six inches shorter than him and she had to tilt her chin back to see him properly.

Steve knew full well she could harm him, make him move if she wanted to. He also knew that he could just as easily hurt her. His thoughts drifted momentarily, thinking of what it would be like to spar with her. He knew Tony had a gym somewhere in the building. With her speed, her agility, her skill, and his strength and weight advantages, they'd be pretty evenly matched, each giving something different to the fight.

It felt like a fight now. Sure, they'd argued plenty while working together, but they were brief moments where their opinions differed from each other. Nothing they couldn't work out within a few minutes. Usually with her making a joke about how absolutely _ancient _he was, and him laughing anyway. He supposed that's what this was—a difference of opinion. But the way they stood—her hands in fists at her side and his arms crossed—it felt like a face-off.

"If you're not going to let me drink then let me leave," Natasha said bluntly.

Steve hesitated. If she really didn't want to talk, he didn't want to push her. At least, that's what half of him thought. The other half of him wanted to push and pull till she gave him something other than a cold shoulder.

"I just want you to talk to me, Nat." he dropped his arms, letting them hang loosely by his sides, speaking softly.

Her gaze softened a bit. But only a little. She didn't say anything, just kept her gaze on him, steady, clenching her jaw like she was trying to keep anything she wanted to say from jumping out.

"Just tell me why you are so set on finding a new cover," Steve demanded. "What's wrong with being Natasha?"

"It's not about _being _Natasha that's the problem, Steve!" she snapped, anger glowing in her eyes. "It's not even about finding a new cover. It's about me!"

Steve sucked in a breath quietly, swallowing, waiting for her to continue.

"Don't you see?" she said, voice still raised. "It _doesn't matter. _Not because everyone knows who I am. Even if I find a new cover, it doesn't matter because I will always—_always_—be a killer and a murderer and a liar. I will always be a _monster. _No cover, no new identity, no new name I make for myself will _ever_ change that."

Her eyes shone with unshed tears and that shocked him into silence. She was seemingly done too, because she said nothing more. Her hands—still in fists—trembled slightly at her sides.

"That's not true," he whispered finally. "You're not a monster, Nat. You're a hero—"

"_Don't._" she held up a hand, silencing him, warning him. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" he snapped.

"Dammit, Steve, because _I'm not a hero_!" she yelled, every line of her tense, coiled tight like a spring. "What I've done are not the kinds of things heroes do."

"What you've done? You mean like New York? Putting your life on the line for thousands of innocent people? Or do you mean like D.C.? Putting your whole life out there for everyone to see so we could stop Hydra from killing millions? 'Cause if those are the things you're talking about, I don't know, they seem pretty damn heroic to me," he argued.

Natasha glowered at him a moment longer before she ducked her head and shoved past him, roughly hitting his shoulder with her own as she passed.

"I'm done talking," she muttered as she passed him.

"Why, because you know I'm right?" he called after her.

The only response he got was the slamming of his door.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

_7 Months Ago…_

"_I don't know, Peggy." Steve ran his hands down his face with a sigh. "Maybe I'm making a mistake. What if Bucky doesn't remember as much as I'm hoping he does?"_

"_Well, you won't know until you find him." Peggy smiled, her eyes crinkling up in the corners. _

_There were times when he would look at her and she would be as she was now—aged, frail, having lived a full life. Then he would blink and he would see her as she was 70 years ago—rich brown locks curling above her shoulders, brown eyes twinkling with amusement (much like they were right now), bright red lips as they smiled at him. Either way, every time he saw her it was just a reminder of the life he could've had. It's not that he was unhappy with the life he had now, but there was a part of him, a piece of his heart that still yearned to turn back the clock, to make a decision where he would have made it to their date instead of frozen in the middle of nowhere. _

"_Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right." Steve chuckled._

_Peggy nodded, like she knew just how right she was. Steve took one of her hands in between his own. Her skin was warm, like it had always been, except now it was pale, weathered with time. He rubbed a thumb across the back of her hand, tracing the lines of the tendons outlined against her skin._

_He hadn't wanted to say anything about S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsing or Hydra coming back or about Bucky being alive and brainwashed—he hadn't wanted to worry her. But by the time he'd gotten there, she'd already seen the news. The nurses and caretakers at her home tended to keep the TV switched off and the newspapers out of her hands due to her dementia. When she would revert and forget, her memories fading away like shadows at night, seeing the news and the horrors that took place in the world every day, it only confused her more. But the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. was too big a story to slip by Peggy. She was smart. She knew when something was wrong. Steve was sure she sweet-talked some nurse into getting her a paper._

_But, nonetheless, when Steve came to see her before he moved to New York, she had asked for his version of the events. _

_And he couldn't say no to Peggy._

_So he'd told her everything. _

_ She was a good listener. She didn't interrupt once. And by the time he was done, it was the longest they (mostly he) had talked without her slipping away. He had been worried that telling her all of this would make her dementia worse, make her more susceptible, the reality in front of her too much, but it almost seemed to make her stronger. _

_ "Steve, I know you want to find him," Peggy started slowly. "I want you to find him, too. But don't forget to live a little, okay? I want you to live your life."_

_ "I know," he whispered. "I will."_

_ "Good. Now, I want to hear more about Natasha."_

_ Steve gaped, surprised. "You do?"_

_ "Yes, of course!" Peggy gave him a look like she couldn't believe how dumb he could be sometimes. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to hear about her."_

_ "Okay…well, what do you want to know?" Steve asked, still uncertain. It wasn't that he minded talking about Natasha. It was just…strange. The girl he once love—was maybe still in love with a little bit if he was being honest with himself—was lying in the bed next to him, asking for him to talk about the only other girl in his life. Though, honestly, he believed that the reason he hadn't allowed himself to get any closer to Natasha, hadn't chased after her in the cemetery, was because of Peggy. There was still a part of him hanging onto her and the life they could've had together. Maybe talking about Natasha with Peggy would help him let go of her—and maybe move forward with Natasha. _That _thought surprised him the most—the fact that he wanted to be closer to Natasha. He wasn't sure yet if he wanted to _be _with her, or just be friends. All he knew was that he had to let go of Peggy first._

_ "Do you have a picture of her?" Peggy asked._

_ Steve smiled, trying to hold back a laugh. He _did _have a picture of Natasha on his phone. Several, actually. She'd stolen his phone one day and when he'd gotten it back, he'd discovered she'd had quite a bit of fun with the camera. She'd taken a dozen or so pictures of herself, then moved on to taking candids of him and some of the other members of the STRIKE team. He'd deleted the ones of the STRIKE team, considering they'd all tried to kill him and he wasn't feeling real sentimental about their times together. The ones of Natasha, though, he'd kept, not having the heart to delete them. Steve flipped through them, landing on his favorite one that she'd taken of herself. She was smiling big, most likely in the middle of a laugh. Her gray-green eyes sparkled, red hair loose around her face. _

_He flipped the phone around to show Peggy and she smiled broadly. Peggy took the phone from him and held in her hands, staring at the photo. "I read some things about her in the paper…they said awful things about her." Peggy's brow furrowed in concern. "From what little you've told me, she doesn't seem bad at all. People have to understand that we all make mistakes. She was very brave, for revealing hers to the world. You should tell her so."_

"_I will," Steve murmured, a little awed at how defensive Peggy was being about Natasha. But then again, he wasn't surprised at all. That was just Peggy. She was always so caring towards others. And she could kick ass if she wanted to, too. Though, maybe not so much anymore. That's what her sharp tongue was for. _

"_I wish I could meet her," Peggy mused, handing him his phone. _

"_You'd like her," Steve replied. "She's quite a bit like you. Smart, independent, strong. Truth be told, Natasha could probably kick _my _ass."_

_Peggy laughed before it broke off into a cough. Steve immediately grabbed the glass of water that sat on the table next to the bed. Peggy continued to cough, and worry stabbed through him—a dagger in the very fragility that was his heart and his hope. For once, he just wanted her not to forget. He didn't want to see her cry when she saw him, thinking that she was seeing him for the first time in 70 years. It would be too much. He would smile, of course, for her. Put on his brave face. But inside, his heart would be fracturing. When she slipped and saw him, he could always see so much sadness in her eyes. There was happiness, too, happiness that he was alive and well. But there was always sadness. She ached for him, for the life he didn't get to have, for all that he missed. As Peggy coughed, he braced himself, readied himself to put on that smile._

_When the coughing stopped, she blinked, looking a little uncertain of where she was and he was sure she was gone again, but then she focused on him and he could see that she knew exactly who he was. He helped her take a few sips of water, setting the glass down once she was done._

"_Steve, do you like her?" Peggy asked after a moment, looking more tired than before._

_Steve hesitated. "I'm guessing you don't mean do I like her as a friend?"_

_Peggy shook her head, but Steve wasn't surprised._

"_I don't know," he replied quietly. "Maybe. I'm not sure. It's just so hard to know what _she's _thinking sometimes…"_

"_Well, don't wait too long to figure it out, Steve," Peggy said gently, reaching over to brush a hand down the side of his face. "You don't want her to get away."_

_Steve laughed softly. "Why are you suddenly so concerned with my love life, Peggy?"_

_She gave him a small smile. "I just…I just want you to be _happy, _Steve. You deserve it. Of all people, _you deserve it._ I just want you to live your life."_

"_You said that before…" Steve said, worry eating at him again. "Peggy, is—is something wrong?"_

_She shook her head, but he could see tears starting to form in her eyes. "I've been trying to save my strength so I could talk to you…"_

_Suddenly, a horrible thought formed in his mind and he felt like he was going to be sick. He shook his head, denial making his thoughts fuzzy. He felt a roaring in his ears and suddenly ice and freezing water was all around him again, rushing like blood in his ears. He clenched his hands into fists. So much ice. And cold. So, so cold_. Steve. Steve. It's okay, you're safe. Steve, _a voice broke its way into his thoughts, soft and gentle, a whisper squeezing its way through the cracks in the wall that separated his memories from reality. _Peggy, _he thought. He blinked, focusing his gaze on the old woman in the bed next to him._

_He gasped softly, realizing that his hands were clenched into her mattress, nearly tearing the thick material. "I'm sorry, Peggy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—it just happens sometimes…"_

"_I know," she whispered, and he saw that a few tears had managed to snake their way down her wrinkled cheeks. "It's okay."_

"_Peggy—" he choked, taking a deep breath to try and breathe past the lump in his throat. "Please, please tell me you're not dying, Peggy."_

"_We're _all _dying, Steve. Every day we die a little bit more. Some, more than others, but dying all the same."_

_He laughed bit it sounded broken and hollow. "Always trying to make me feel like an idiot, huh?"_

"_You're only an idiot _sometimes,_" she smiled. "I just…I'm really glad you came here, Steve. I wasn't sure if I was going to get to see you again before I—"_

"_Please don't," he said softly. If she said it, that would make it real, and he'd lost enough people in his life. _

"_Before, what I was saying, about saving up my strength," Peggy continued, either not having heard his comment or choosing to ignore it because it was easier that way. "I didn't want to forget you again, Steve. I've forgotten you so many times now, and if this is the last time I see you, I want to know who you are. The Steve you are now, anyway."_

_Steve wanted to duck his head, wanted to look away before the tears burning his eyes fell, but he couldn't. He couldn't tear his gaze away even though it felt like a million needles were piercing his heart, going deeper and deeper with each word she said._

"_Just be happy for me, okay Steve?" she asked, her voice cracking._

_Steve nodded, not trusting his own voice enough to answer her._

"_Whether it's with Natasha or someone else…I know that it goes against everything you are to not help people, but the world doesn't rest on your shoulders, Steve," Peggy said, finding his hand and giving it a squeeze. "You've done enough. You've saved the world enough times. It's time for you to live the life you didn't get to have before."_

"_Peggy, I—" Steve cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "I don't—_I don't belong here. _I don't know how to be happy here."_

_The only times he was even remotely happy was when he was with Peggy and when he was with Natasha. But Peggy was dying and Natasha was gone and he was alone again._

"_Try, Steve. _Try._ For me?" Peggy pleaded. She sounded exhausted, her breaths coming less easily the more she talked. "Steve…I've always loved you, Steve. Even when I married, you always had a little place in my heart. You always will. I'm sure it's the same for you, but it's okay to let go, Steve. It's time to let go."_

"_I can't," he said, and his voice cracked, breaking apart the two syllables. "You—you're one of the only people I have left."_

"_I know, I know," she sighed, barely above a whisper. "Steve…oh, Steve…"_

_Peggy smiled, his name falling from her lips over and over again. She was fading away before his eyes and he couldn't do anything to stop it._

"_I'm here, Peggy. It's okay. I'm here," he promised. "You know, I never did get that dance."_

_She laughed, light and airy, tears spilling over and down her cheeks. Then she coughed again. He didn't even reach for the water because it wouldn't have done anything anyway. It wouldn't heal her, wouldn't cure her, wouldn't turn back time. The coughs stopped and when she looked at him, so did his heart._

"_Steve?" he voice was so weak. "Steve, is that you? You're alive?"_

_Holding back any tears, Steve nodded, clenching the hand that she wasn't holding into a fist. His nails bit into his palm so hard he was sure when he took them away there would be blood staining his palm._

"_Steve? Oh, Steve," she said, chin trembling._

_She repeated his name a few more times, a smile on her lips and tears running down her face. Her eyelids started flutter and then they shut all together. He watched, broken and speechless, as her chest rose and fell with her last breaths. But pretty soon that stopped, too._

"_Peggy…" he choked out. She didn't answer. He didn't expect her to. "Peggy?"_

"_Peggy?" he tried one last time. But she was gone. This time, for good. _

_When he'd first woken up from the ice, he was sure she'd be dead and he had been heart-broken. He'd thought it had been bad losing her once. It was the same with Bucky. He'd watched his friend fall to his—supposed—death, only to have him reappear in his life again as a brainwashed assassin. He'd lost the two people he loved the most once, and now twice. It was so much worse to lose them a second time._

_Steve let out a scream—a terrible, broken sound that heralded the nurses like the wail of a banshee. They found him by her bed, tearless sobs wracking his body, his hand still holding Peggy's now lifeless one. And when he finally let go, there indeed was blood on his hand. _

**-:-**

**Music for this chapter:**

_**Demons **_**by Imagine Dragons (Steve and Natasha)**

_**The Scientist **_**by Coldplay (Steve and Peggy, mostly, but works for Steve and Natasha as well)**

_**Fix You **_**by Coldplay (angsty song for an angsty chapter)**

_**After the Storm **_**by Mumford & Sons**

**Well, that was painful…but I hope you guys liked it anyway! Let me tell you, there were real tears in my eyes while writing this. I definitely was not expecting it to get this angsty, but I like how it turned out so. And as much as I love Peggy, I just firmly believe that Steve cannot move on with Natasha until Peggy is gone. **

**There will be one more chapter! I was actually gonna have the content of the next chapter be in this one, but it was getting kind of long so I decided to split it up.**

**Please review! I really appreciate it and I really do love hearing your thoughts!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**-DaughterOfPoseidon333**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey, guys! So, **_**really **_**sorry about the late update! I seriously meant to get this up earlier but I've been kinda busy and haven't had a ton of time to write, so thank you for your patience!**

**Also, big thank you to everyone who has reviewed and favorited and followed this story! You guys really have no idea how much it means to me! Your reviews are like little presents and I absolutely love all of you for your continued support!**

**WARNING: This chapter **_**is **_**M-rated, but only for the ending. The rest of it fits into the T rating.**

**Also, just another quick disclaimer to Shadows of a Dream and her story, Be My Shield (five times we touched). The first chapters of this story were inspired by her story, and you guys should all give it a read!**

**I don't own Captain America.**

**Enjoy!**

**-:-**

After her fight with Steve, Natasha returned to her floor of the Stark Tower, resisting the urge to hit something. She paced around her floor, wanting to scream. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths, trying to put out some of the angry fire that was racing through her veins. She hated fighting with Steve. As often as they seemed to bicker, full-blown yelling matches happened rarely. She couldn't even remember the last time they'd fought this badly. She exhaled slowly, feeling frustrated. Steve was just so damn _good. _He was so utterly pure and moral, and all of those good qualities, all of his honesty, it pushed her buttons to no end. They literally could not be any different.

That's probably what made her relationship with Steve that much different than her relationship with Clint. She and Clint were so much alike that when they fought—which was just as rare—they usually ended up just giving each other the silent treatment, so few words exchanged that it couldn't even be called a fight. And it stayed like that till they called a truce and went about like normal. But with Steve…with Steve it was different. He just made her so _angry _and _frustrated. _Hell, he'd nearly had her in tears just minutes before. And Natasha didn't _cry. _Steve was just always trying to get her to open up. He pushed and pounded on the walls she built up around herself till she could feel them weakening. That was usually the point, then, that she would shut down all his attempts completely and refuse to let him get any closer.

Natasha wondered when she'd started letting him in. They hadn't bonded like some of the others when Fury first called together all the Avengers. They'd fought side by side during the Battle of New York, but it had been a purely professional relationship. And then, after New York, Fury partnered them up and they suddenly fit together as if they'd known each other their whole lives. They could bounce banter back and forth, knew each other's fighting styles, spent nearly every waking day together on missions for S.H.I.E.L.D. And somewhere in between all that, Natasha's walls had started to thin around him. For some reason, she didn't mind.

That is, until something like this happened and she wished Steve would just leave her alone and they could just go back to being the professional near-strangers they had been two—almost three—years ago. But, in reality, she wanted nothing more than to be able to let down her walls. She _wanted _to let him in. She just didn't know how. She didn't know how to apologize to him. She didn't know how to tell him that the months spent without him had been some of the worst months she'd had in a very long time. She didn't know how to tell him that with his presence absent from her side, she had felt like a shell of a person, empty and hollow with no one to lean on when she felt the weight of all her mistakes crushing down on her like a ton of rocks. And above all, she didn't know how to tell him that she cared about him in a way that definitely crossed the line between friends and something more.

It had been so long since she had let someone in that the thought of letting Steve in terrified her. Especially considering who he was. Sure, he had his ghosts, nightmares that followed him like a shadow. But at the same time, he was light. He was warm and comforting—a beacon of hope in the darkest of days. She _was _the darkness. She was blood and ash and fire. The kind of fire that destroyed. Covered in red. _So much red. Red red red. _And with Steve, it seemed like he had begun to help her wash some of that away. Her ledger, the weight of what she had done, seemed less heavy on her shoulders with him around. She wondered if she'd ruined all that, put them right back at square one with shutting him out just now.

She supposed there was really only one way to find out.

She took a few more deep breaths. She had never been good at apologizing. They taught her not to apologize, not to feel remorse in the Red Room. But she wasn't Natalia anymore. She was _Natasha. _And Natasha never gave up, never backed down. Even from something as mundane as telling a 95 year old super solider that she really wanted to start making up for her sins, starting with making it up to _him._

-:-:-:-:-

After his fight with Natasha Steve tried to calm down. He showered, changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, unpacked his bags, did everything he could, but he still felt like punching something. He finally decided that even if he didn't sleep, he could at least lie in bed and maybe he'd be lucky enough to get even a few minutes of shut eye. That didn't work so well either. He tossed and turned. No position seemed comfortable. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was nearing 3 o'clock in the morning. He sighed.

Finally, after another minute of shutting his eyes and getting nothing but images of Natasha and her flaming red locks, her hands clenched into fists, unshed tears in her eyes, he gave up. Steve flicked on the lamp beside his bed and grabbed a book off his nightstand. The paperback was covered in dust. He probably hadn't touched it since he moved in. He sat up against the headboard, hoping that reading would make him sleepy enough to fall asleep. He managed to get through a whole chapter, but by the end of it, he had no recollection of what he'd just read. With another huff of frustration, Steve put the book down and rubbed his hands over his face. Maybe if he went down to the gym he could work out some of the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins.

He was about to crawl out of bed and grab his gym bag when he heard the doorknob to his bedroom turn. He froze. Experience had made him wary. Especially if people were trying to break into his room at three in the morning. As a habit, he reached soundlessly for his shield, which he kept propped up against his bedside table. His fingers had just touched the cool metal when he saw Natasha's head poke in. He relaxed…mostly. It was safe to say that he wasn't going to try and knock her out cold with his shield, but that didn't mean he wasn't still feeling tense about their fight.

"Natasha, what are you—?" he broke off, his jaw dropping as she emerged fully into his room.

Steve stared, mesmerized at the woman before him. Natasha was wearing a sheer black tank top, edged with lace. The sleeping garment was loose around her torso, the edge of the fabric coming to a stop right above the hem of her similarly lacy black underwear. Steve blinked, and then swallowed hard, forcing himself to look at her face and not at her long legs, among other parts of her nearly naked body. It was hard, though. She was stunning, truly. Sheathed in black and bathed in the pale golden light coming from his small table lamp, she looked like fire and smoke and ash. And just like fire, she was deadly and beautiful all at once.

Wordlessly, Natasha made her way over to the bed. Steve scooted back against the headboard as she climbed atop the mattress and then straddled his lap, her arms twining around his neck. Steve looked up at her, his heart slamming against his ribcage. Her face was expressionless, but not cold. In fact, there was something utterly open and _warm _about her features. He couldn't tell what she was thinking—didn't think he'd ever be able to—but the emotion was there, buried right under the surface of her green eyes.

When she slowly leaned in, Steve wished he could have said he hadn't been surprised. That wasn't the case though. As soon as her lips pressed against his, he froze, shocked. He didn't know what he had been expecting. After all, what other kind of move would she have made in their proximity? Still, the fact that she was kissing him, willingly, right after their explosive fight, well, it surprised him. But even though his brain was completely dumbfounded, his body knew exactly how to respond. His hands moved of their own accord, one slipping up to rest against her waist, the other trailing up and down the bare skin of her thigh. Just as Steve thought she was going to press closer, she pulled away.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her hands sliding up and down his arms till they stopped at the nape of his neck, fingers toying with the short blonde strands of hair.

Steve paused, trying to form a coherent thought. "For kissing me?"

One corner of her mouth quirked up into half a smile. "_No,_" she said. "Not for kissing you. I'm sorry about earlier. For shutting you out. I shouldn't have done that."

"It's okay," he whispered.

Natasha shook her head. "It's not okay. I'm…I'm _trying to be better._"

"Natasha—" he tried to say, but she held up a hand.

"Shh," she whispered. Her face was so close to his their breaths mingled and he could see the flecks of gold and brown in her eyes. "Just-just let me get this out, please."

Steve nodded in acknowledgement.

She took a breath, glancing away from him for a brief moment. "All my covers being blown," she started slowly. "I know I said it hasn't been easy, but it's been a lot harder for me than I let on. It's difficult, when you live buried under so many identities for so long…you kind of lose who you are. That was happening to me. I'm still not entirely sure who I am…"

Steve didn't say anything as she trailed off, her voice quiet.

"I guess that's why I got so mad earlier," she continued. "You've always seen me as one person, but I haven't. You were right, though. I realized that I _like _being Natasha. She's not who I was born as, but she _is _me. The best version of me. And you've always seen that. You've always seen just the good parts of me, never the bad."

"I see the real you," he murmured, keeping her gaze.

"I know." Natasha smiled. "And I didn't realize that until now. I didn't realize how much I _needed _that until now."

There was a pause between them. Steve didn't speak. He didn't even move. Part of that was because there was very little fabric between them and Steve was trying to remain in control, which was hard considering how close she was, all wrapped up in his arms, lips inches away from his, the smell of her coconut shampoo intoxicating.

"You've always believed in me, trusted me even when I didn't deserve it," Natasha said finally, breaking through the barrier of silence. "And I've never been one to go on faith. I trust what I know. I trust my instincts. But…if I've learned anything from you, it's that maybe everyone needs a little faith. I'm not sure if there is a God or whatever, but…"

"So what _do _you believe in?" Steve asked gently.

"You," she said without a beat of hesitation.

Steve stared for a moment, lost in the honesty in her green eyes.

"Well, if you believe in something, that's a start, right?" he whispered, his gaze steady with hers.

"Guess so," she replied

The air between them was heavy, thick with words unsaid and actions undone. Their bodies seemed to gravitate even closer together, if that was even possible. Steve reached up to slowly push a strand of hair away from her face, his eyes never leaving hers. Being as close as she was, Steve couldn't help the nervous flutter in his stomach. He'd been kissed three times, including Natasha kissing him on the escalator. Normally, if it were any other woman, he would have been scared shitless, too nervous to even spit out a word. But with Natasha, he felt a boldness, a bravery that he had never felt before, even with Peggy.

At the thought of Peggy, he had the briefest moment of hesitation, his courage slipping away. But Peggy would have wanted him to move on. She _did _want him to move on. Half of their last conversation had been her trying to convince him to stop living in the past and focus on the future and the life he could live if he just _let go. _So Steve let go. Peggy was gone and he could think of no better time to be brave and just say what he meant.

"I really want to kiss you again," Steve murmured.

He thought he saw the briefest flash of surprise in Natasha's eyes, but it disappeared and was replaced with a desire he was sure matched his own.

Then, she leaned forward, her breath tickling the shell of his ear as she spoke, "Then what are you waiting for?"

God, how did she do that? She took his boldness and raised it to the next level. She was absolutely fearless. The playful, challenging smile on her face proof of that. But Steve recovered quickly and in the next second his lips were against hers. Natasha immediately leaned into him, her fingers sliding up through his short hair as she pressed her chest against his. Steve, never having gotten this far with a woman, tried not to think too much. He let instinct take over, his desire driving his actions. He continued to kiss her, and (because he wasn't nearly as good a kisser as he liked to think) after a few clumsy attempts, their mouths moved together like they'd kissed a million times before.

"Impressive, Rogers," Natasha sighed, her head tipping back to expose her neck. "You been practicing?"

"Told you," he mumbled against the skin of her neck as he trailed his mouth up and down the curve of her throat. "You don't need practice."

She gave a low laugh and he pulled back for a moment to look at her. Bathed in the warm light from his lamp, skin flushed, full lips parted just the slightest, Natasha practically glowed. Steve wondered—not for the first time—how someone so beautiful could be so deadly. But that was the whole point, wasn't it? No one would suspect that someone as angelic looking as her was capable of killing until the knife had already penetrated their throat. The thought made him a little nervous as it made him remember who he was with. _The Black Widow. _But it didn't make him nervous enough to want to stop. The feeling he got from kissing her, it was a high, a feeling he'd never before experience, and he didn't want it to end. In fact, he wanted to take it further.

Natasha would have been lying if she said she hadn't wanted to kiss Steve again. So when he'd boldly told her he'd desired the same thing, there was no way she was going to deny him. After all, she had come into his room rather scantily clad for the exact reason that she wanted to be in this exact position with him. And by the way her heart was pounding, the way heat was slowly pooling in her belly, setting her aflame, she knew she had made the right decision.

Steve kissed her again, no trace of the inexperience that had been apparent on the escalator. He was a quick learner, she'd give him that. Their kisses deepened and Natasha could no longer stand the clothing in between their bodies. She found the hem of Steve's shirt, tugging it up his body, their lips only parting long enough so she could lift the article up and over his head. Natasha ran her hands across his broad chest, feeling each and every taut muscle beneath his smooth skin. Then, slowly, she reached down to grab the bottom of her nightgown. Steve watched, breath held, as she eased the garment up her torso, finally pulling it off and tossing it somewhere on the floor. She noticed Steve trying to avert his gaze away from her chest. _Old habits really do die hard, don't they? _she thought. Natasha cupped Steve's face in between her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye.

"It's okay, Steve," she whispered.

"I've just, um…I've never—I haven't—" he stammered, his cheeks flaring red from momentary embarrassment.

"I know," she told him gently. "It's okay. I'll show you."

She moved to cover one of his hands with her own, guiding him until he cupped one of her breasts. She heard his sharp intake of breath and a quick jump of his lap beneath her. But with her encouragement, he relaxed, hands roaming more freely over her body. And soon enough, after repeated touches and the press of lips to lips and lips to skin, the rest of their clothing was discarded. Their positions had shifted so Natasha was on her back, Steve hovering above her so she could feel all of his heat but none of his weight rested on her. He touched his forehead to hers, their labored breathing the only sound between them.

Steve's length was twitching right in front of her entrance, his eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty. So Natasha reached down and guided him till he was fully inside her, a gasp escaping past her lips. She rolled her hips, a moan slipping from her throat. Natasha knew how to fake enjoyment, how to fake the height of pleasure; it helped back in her Red Room days when sometimes extra steps were needed to secure the trust of a suspect. But with Steve, she was completely herself. Every cry that fell from her mouth was her own. And by the time Steve caught on to their rhythm, his hips moving perfectly in sync with hers, his own breathing becoming more ragged, Natasha could barely contain the fire that was threatening to consume her. She didn't think she'd ever felt this way before with someone. She was beginning to realize, though, that Steve brought a lot of emotions out of her that she wasn't familiar with. She found that fact both frustrating and addicting all at the same time.

"Steve," she sighed, her hands gripping his shoulders to a point that had to be nearly painful.

He captured her lips with his own again, their kisses turning frantic and feverish, reflecting the releases that were quickly building inside both of them. Natasha's back arched, her head falling back with a cry as her orgasm hit her like a tsunami, dragging her up and over and under. Steve followed seconds later, his almost more powerful, bringing with it another wave of pleasure that swept over her.

Sated, they disentangled their limbs, Steve pulling the sheets around their sweat-coated bodies. He gently swept her damp hair away from her forehead, his blue eyes dark.

"Not bad for an old man," Natasha teased, curling her body closer to his.

Steve chuckled. "Glad I could satisfy you."

"Believe me," Natasha said. "You did."

Steve's eyes scanned her features, looking like he was biting his tongue to keep from saying something. "Natasha…I lo—"

Natasha quickly put a hand up against his mouth, blocking the rest of that sentence from coming out. "Please don't," she whispered, begging, taking her hand away from his lips.

Steve looked a little hurt, but not completely surprised. In fact, he looked a little surprised with himself, almost as if he couldn't quite believe he'd been about to say those words either.

"That's a promise, Steve. Not one you can take back," she explained quietly. "I don't want you to make that promise to me. Not yet, anyway. Okay?"

Steve nodded. Then he leaned forward and kissed her softly, slowly. It made Natasha ache deep inside. But it was a good ache, a promise of more to come, of a future of his kisses.

"Just promise me you'll stay the night, then," Steve pleaded.

Natasha didn't ever stay the night. She always snuck away in the early morning hours before her lovers—if they could even be called that—woke and asked for more. But Steve was not one of them. He was the embodiment of everything Natasha wished she could be. And she supposed, even if she could never completely straighten out her skewed moral compass, she had Steve to guide her, to be by her side when she needed him most. She was fire and he was ice. Ice was cold, but it was pure. Fire consumed and killed and destroyed everything in its path. But, Steve was making her realize that fire also brought life. She could be the phoenix and rise from the ashes. She could shed Natalia and become Natasha permanently. The idea made her smile.

"I promise."

**-:-**

**Music for this chapter:**

_**Never Let Me Go; **_**Florence and The Machine**

_**Eyes on Fire; **_**Kyle Buckley cover (original by: Blue Foundation)**

_**Gravity; **_**Sara Bareilles**

_**Silhouette; **_**Active Child feat. Ellie Goulding **

**And that is the end!**

**I hope you all enjoyed! I know I really enjoyed writing it :) **

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**Thank you for reading! You are all so amazing and such wonderful people!**

**-DaughterOfPoseidon333**

**P.S. If there's any typos, I'm sorry, it's late and I probably didn't catch them.**


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